Did you ever have the feeling that you are bursting inside with something that just has to be expressed? Something you can no longer contain, that wants to be set free. Then you say to yourself, “But I’m not an artist.” and that something remains deep inside you, fermenting.
Twenty-five years ago, during therapy, I was trying to recall the details of a traumatic incident that occurred when I was about twelve. Although I know it had a major impact on my life, I had repressed it almost completely.
All I remembered was that I was walking along the street and passed a shack built by the neighborhood boys in an empty field. Some of the boys were standing near the shack and they beckoned me to come in. Curious, I entered. All I remember after that is a lot of movement and swirling shapes. Then I recall walking home and feeling confused. Something was drizzling down my left leg, from under my green corduroy shorts.
I felt an overwhelming compulsion to explore that lost memory. I can’t draw or paint so I took out some magazines, paper, paint and glue and spontaneously created this.
I was taken aback, because it expressed exactly what I was feeling – rage and helplessness, confusion, and guilt. I had finally come face to face with something I had been evading for so many years. It was such a release. Once it was on paper it stopped tormenting me. I was on to something. I had finally found my medium.